


Carve Yourself From Sandstone

by TheBeckster



Category: Jak and Daxter
Genre: Action/Adventure, Canon-Typical Violence, Cherry Picking the details I want from the canon timeline, Dadmas, Drama, Gen, Hey guys Sig kills people, Just so you know right off the bat, Making the rest of it up to actually make some sense, Non-Binary Seem, Not even sorry for all the headcanons, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Canon, So many OCs, The Wasteland, Your fave is Ace, except I do because its my fic, rated for violence and language, so many headcanons, sorry I don't make the rules - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 08:41:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19866718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBeckster/pseuds/TheBeckster
Summary: Sentenced to death and dropped in the middle of a wasteland. Blood on his hands and nothing to return to. At least he would live out his last few days with a clean conscience.But then salvation has a funny habit of turning up when you least expect it.With a second chance placed in his hands, what else is there to do but take up his tools and carve out a new life?





	1. Chapter 1 - Salvation

**Author's Note:**

> Oops! Look at me writing Jak and Daxter fic. (God, is it 2008 again?)
> 
> I have been slowly picking at this idea for like three years in the context of "oh, i'll never post this. this is just to get my thoughts down in a word document." and then, a month or so ago, I was just hit real hard with the inspiration to actually turn this into a real story and not just some disjointed scenes and bits of dialogue. So everything got a major rehaul and I actually had to think up plot points, because now it demands to be posted.
> 
> Fair warning now, I'm cherry picking the details I want from canon and then turning them into a timeline that actually makes some fukin sense. This fic is going to be 1. riddled with headcanons and 2. riddled with OCs because we have such a small cast to work with. If that's not your jam, sorry.
> 
> I will add tags and warnings and characters as they come into the story, but right now, even I'm not entirely sure what will happen. I will do my very best to warn against triggers and squicks at the beginning of each chapter and in the main tags, but if I miss anything, you have my sincerest apologies, and please let me know so I can tag appropriately. Please never feel shy to reach out to me for a tag update. This also goes for any typos/grammatical/copy-paste errors or accessibility issues. If I can fix it, please let me know. I self-beta, and no matter what, there's always something I miss.
> 
> And I think that's it for opening notes.
> 
> Just for reference, I believe that being King of the Wasteland if a lot like being King of the Pirates.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy this story about my Fav just as much as I do!
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> -Becks
> 
>  **Content Warning:** Blood & gore. Violent means of murder. Descriptions of the aftermath of a violent murder. Threats of violence. Descriptions of past bodily harm/scaring. Mention of child sexual assault. Temporarily misgendered non-binary characters.

The man was feral.

That was Damas’ first impression.

He and his companions had followed the quickly dissipating contrails of a transport. The shouts that had risen over the dunes had ended almost as abruptly as they began, and it wasn’t difficult to see why.

He was tall, broad in the shoulders, dark of skin and hair. He easily palmed the large stone in his hand – both stone and hand dripping red with blood that was not his own. He wiped a fleck of gore from his cheek, though that did little to help things, and spat on what remained of the other man.

The Wastelanders were cautious, approaching from the top of the dune and keeping their guns trained on the man at all times. They were ready, but they wouldn’t shoot. Yet.

Spargus was always in need of strong bodies. That being said, better for the desert scavengers to feast on two tonight than to let uncontrollable danger into their midst.

The man heard them approach, he tensed and turned slowly. His grip tightened on the rock, but he made no move of aggression. He kept a wary eye on the rifles pointed at him as he caught his breath. At least he was aware of the fact that he was outmatched, so probably not truly feral.

Damas noted that the longer he looked at the man, the younger he seemed. His face held traces of the softness of boyhood, even if his eyes held the hardness of a grown man. He began to doubt whether the man was even over the age of majority.

“Care to explain yourself?”

The young man dropped the stone into the rapidly dampening sand at his feet with a dull thud. Rage burned in his eyes, but it was controlled and dissipating. “The bastard spent the entire flight out bragging about the kids he raped and killed. I wasn’t about to let him draw another breath.” His voice was deep, for one so young.

Damas shared a look with the woman on his right and then the man on his left. He lowered his gun, but the others didn’t move. “It’s not often the city leaves us criminals with morals,” he commented dryly, watching the young man’s every move.

He scowled up at the Wastelanders, shoulders hunching defensively. “I’m not a criminal!”

“You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

The young man clenched his jaw, looking as if he wanted nothing more than to prove Damas wrong, but he eyed the other Wastelanders and their readied guns and chose to stay mute. Damas regarded him silently, watching the righteous indignation move across the young man’s face, evaluating him.

He was strong. The bloody pulp of the man’s head behind him could attest to that. And he clearly had no qualms against using force or killing. Even with a generous estimation of the young man’s age, there was no way he was done growing. He’d be taller still, and stronger with training. He could be valuable as a body guard, or a protector of the city.

The young man had potential. He could be well worth the investment of time and materials to turn him into a true Wastelander. The King would be pleased with this find … _if_ the young man passed the trials.

Damas signaled to his companions and they lowered their weapons. He gestured for the man to approach, saying, “Come, we shall see what the Wasteland makes of you.”

The young man hesitated, trying to figure out if this was a trap or not.

Damas considered this as a type of test on its own. Havenites were soft, but deliriously confident and proud. Many of them believed that they’d be better off on their own, trusting in their city-bred skills to survive the desert – none of them ever did. Those willing to set aside their pride for a chance of salvation fared better. After a moment of consideration, the young man walked up the dune.

The woman bound the young man’s hands as the Wastelanders led him up the dune to the waiting vehicle. Fortunately it was one of the larger cars. The woman shoved the young man into the back seat with a hissed warning of, “Don’t try anything stupid,” before taking her seat beside him, her hand resting on the hilt of the knife at her hip. He was completely compliant, keeping his eyes downward.

“Tell me,” Damas said, taking his own seat, turning to look back at the man. “What is your name?”

The young man looked up from his bound hands. “Sig.”

* * *

Sig tried not to stare too obviously as they approached the massive walls that weren’t supposed to be in the desert. Nobody lived in the Wasteland. There was nothing out here except metalheads and corpses. But the flaming beacon – visible for miles – and the sand blasted walls, and the _people_ who had found him told him that everything he had known was a lie.

His rescuers? Captors? These Wastelanders hardly spoke to him. Granted, Sig didn’t do much speaking for the trip either. The man in the front, the apparent leader, had dug a set of goggles and a scrap of cloth out of a compartment and tossed them at Sig. He had managed to slip the goggles over his eyes with his awkwardly bound hands before they reached high speeds, but he still got a mouthful of sand before he could cover his face. The roar of the engine and the bone-jarring bouncing of the vehicle as they raced across the dunes leant very little to a conversational atmosphere.

Even after they left the vehicle in a sandy motor pool, under the care of a thin, wiry, old mechanic, they still didn’t speak other than to give orders. Sig followed his instincts, kept quiet, and followed the leader through the heavy metal doors and into the city proper – though Sig could hardly call it that.

Buildings of adobe and scrap metal had been built haphazardly. Some buildings stacked three or four stories high; others crumbled down to only one. Some of the buildings seemed to climb up the foot of the ring of mountains that protected the city from the worst of the desert. Well-worn paths meandered through the buildings, reminding Sig somewhat of the boardwalks of the water slums. These were paths of convenience, not of plan or aesthetic like in the richer parts of Haven.

There were more people than Sig expected. All ages walked the paths of the city, keeping to themselves, a rifle or scatter gun always strapped to their backs. Some walked in twos or threes, conversing quietly, others led or rode large lizards. There were children too; a group huddled in the shade of a building. They appeared to be playing some kind of game with a ball, but even that seemed more subdued than it would have been between Haven’s children. Of the adults… well, Sig saw more scarred faces and missing limbs than not.

He accidentally made eye contact with a man who was missing half of his face and one leg. What was left of the man’s mouth scowled at him and he growled, “What are you looking at, outsider?” He lunged forward and grabbed Sig by the front of his shirt, pulling him close. “You want a matching set of scars?”

“Leave him be!” the leader of their group barked, stepping forward and shoving the two apart. “If you are so eager to fight, then you know where to go. This one is yet to see the King.”

The scarred man growled and spat at the ground at Sig’s boots, but stalked away. Sig opened his mouth to thank the leader, but he was interrupted with a sharp jab to his chest.

“You keep your eyes to yourself, outsider!” The leader barked his only warning.

Sig nodded and trained his eyes to the ground as they proceeded, not looking up for fear of starting another fight. And he had thought Havenites were a nasty bunch. They walked past a little market area, where some rough-hewn wooden stands seemed to have hardy fruits and vegetables on display. The sound of splashing water turned Sig’s head, and he saw a boy pumping clear water into a jar held by his little sister. Sig suddenly realized how desperately thirsty he was. His last drink had been the measly morning cup of sludge the Guard had given him before he was shipped out. He had a feeling that asking for water was going to just get him in trouble though, so he licked his dry lips and asked a different question to distract him from his thirst.

“Why am I going to see the King?”

He half expected his escort to tell him to shut up, don’t ask questions, or even strike him – it’s what the KG did. He wasn’t really expecting an answer from the leader, much less a brutally blunt one. “To see if you are worth keeping alive.”

“If I am?” Sig asked, risking another question. What was the worse they could do at this point?

“You will face the trials, and if you succeed at those, you might become a Wastelander.”

“And if I’m not?”

“Then either the desert or the metalheads will kill you.”

They came to a massive set of stairs carved into a mountain side and marched up. Sig lost count of the steps around the time his legs turned to acid and his lungs burned. Halfway up, he deeply regretted not asking for some water back at the market. Through sheer determination alone, and deep seeded fear of showing weakness around strangers, he climbed silently. His escort hardly seemed troubled by the climb.

Massive doors opened for them, and Sig expected to step into the coolness of the shaded hallways, but if anything, it was hotter inside than out. The hall curved away, plain, undecorated save for the support columns spaced along the walls, and carved out of the mountain stone. There were no doors in sight, but distantly, Sig could hear many voices and metal clashing; shouts, taunts, grunts. Soldiers training? Was this the Wasteland’s Fortress?

A girl, just a couple years younger than Sig, hurried up to them, and nodded respectfully to the leader of the group. She eyed Sig curiously, but hardly seemed daunted – a first for Sig. His size unnerved people back in the city.

“Tell the King I have found another contender,” the leader instructed the girl.

She bobbed into a short bow before turning on her heel and hurrying off. They followed at a much slower pace and stopped to wait by and empty elevator shaft. There were no doors and it gaped open at them, almost begging someone to be stupid enough to step too close. The wait was silent, but short. With a rattle of wood and bone the elevator lowered back to their level with the page girl.

“The King is waiting for you,” she informed, stepping off the platform and to the side.

Sig was shoved forward and he tripped onto the elevator. He steadied himself as the leader stepped on. The other two Wastelanders did not accompany them. The leader pulled a lever and the platform rose slowly. Sig eyed the old rope holding the rickety thing together and prayed silently that the platform would stay in one piece long enough for him to reach solid ground again.

He heard a familiar sound in the distance; running water. His thirst ached even more as the trickling sound became clearer and the scent of fresh water hit his nose. Cool air gusted down on them, bringing a caress of relief to Sig after his time in the desert and the oven-like tunnels. They rose up into a lush throne room. Crystal clear stone pools and whispering fountains made Sig long for home. Potted plants sweetened the air in a way he’d never experienced. Surely a place such as this couldn’t exist out in the Wasteland.

Maybe he had died, or already gone mad with the heat.

A stone walkway divided the pools, and at the end of the room sat two thrones on a raised dais. On the largest throne sat an older woman; dark brown skin, violet hair gone dusky with gray, one eye permanently scowling from a red cybernetic implant. On the smaller throne sat another woman, close in age to her companion, but of fair skin and brown hair, left ear missing and the same side of her face scarred to match.

“What have you brought me today, Damas?” the King asked, looking down imperiously from her throne.

“A candidate, your Highness.”

There was a pause as Sig was eyed and sized up. He felt like a yakow at auction. Unsure of what exactly they were looking for, he stood stock still.

The King pulled herself to her feet, relying heavily on her staff for support. Even from a distance, Sig could hear the creak and squeal of old hydraulics in her prosthetic leg. She and the Queen walked forward, inspecting Sig even closer.

“He’s a strong one,” the Queen commented, giving his bicep a testing squeeze.

Now Sig felt even more like a yakow at auction. Were they going to check his teeth next?

“He’s a Havenite,” the King waved dismissively. “A city of weaklings.”

The Queen smiled, almost indulgently, she continued her circling. “Even that city will spit out a few gems. What is your name?”

“Sig, ma’am.”

“And how old are you?”

Sig paused, wondering if he should lie or not. In the city, he was easily able to pass for a man five years his senior if nobody looked too hard. Out here, would being young help him or harm him? “Twenty.”

“Liar.” The Queen said shrewdly, her lip curling up in an almost-smirk.

Sig winced internally. That was probably his first and only strike. He probably wouldn’t get away with lying again.

The tiny smirk disappeared from the Queen’s face and her hard expression told Sig his assumptions had been correct. “Try again.”

Sig swallowed nervously, fighting all instinct to self-preserve and keep lying. “Sixteen.”

The Queen’s brow rose in appreciation, and Sig could feel the King and Damas studying him in appraisal. They were sizing him up as muscle, predicting when and where he’d stop growing. Sig had been looked at like that ever since he was fourteen. He had spent the last two years of his life being groomed to be someone’s heavy. In Haven, it had been the gangs; here it would be the King.

Whatever. Better to be someone’s heavy than a corpse. And Sig was good at what he did.

The King lifted Sig’s right arm and turned it this way and that, examining the dried blood. “This is not yours.”

“No, it’s not.”

She dropped his arm and made no further comment on the blood. Done with her inspection, the King walked stiffly back to her throne with the Queen. “Why are you here?” she asked, once she was seated again.

Sig knew she wasn’t asking why he was currently standing in the throne room. “I had a… disagreement with some of the KG back in the city?”

“Banishment over a disagreement?” The King asked, amused disbelief tinting her voice.

“I guess the KG don’t like it when the slum rats push back,” Sig said darkly. “I wasn’t worth the cost of a bullet.”

“That sounds about right for the Guard,” the King laughed once, humorlessly. “And that’s all you are? An objector?”

“He is a murderer,” Damas added.

Indignation flushed through Sig’s veins. The blood on his hands seemed to burn against his skin. “That sick bastard deserved it!” He was not going to be put to death in this Wasteland city for making the world a better place. “He raped kids. He was a monster!”

The King leaned forward, cool interest creasing her brow. “So you like killing monsters?”

“The world’s a safer place without them.”

The King sat back in her throne, exchanging a look with the Queen before looking down at Sig again. “Is that what you want? To rid the world of monsters? Make it a safer place for the children?”

Sig opened his mouth to respond, closed it, and then said, “There are worse things I could do with my time.”

The King laughed again, a dry bark. “Another hero, I see. You may be of use to us.” She gestured dismissively, sending them away. “We shall see what the Arena makes of you.”

Sig was taken out of the throne room, back down the rickety elevator, and deeper into the mountain. It only grew hotter the deeper they went, and he began to suspect they were crawling through a volcano. He remembered hearing once that the Wasteland was supposed to be littered with the things.

How insane did these Wastelanders have to be to live inside of one?

“You are surprisingly quiet for one in your position,” Damas commented as he marched deeper into the mountain.

“In my experience, asking too many questions gets you in trouble, sir.”

Damas paused and looked over his shoulder. “That would depend upon the questions you ask.”

Sig knew a free pass when he saw one. “What is this Arena? What am I expected to do?”

Damas’ eyes narrowed, Sig couldn’t tell if he was smirking or glaring. He turned forward again and continued walking. “Those are good questions.”

They came to a door, simple, cobbled together with scrap metal, unmarked and unassuming. Damas pushed it open and stepped through. Sig followed. The heat hit him like a punch to the gut. It was hotter here than he’d ever felt – even the foundry furnaces in the city didn’t burn this hot, he thought.

They were standing at the top of a set of stone bleachers, carved directly from the mountain rock. Near-identical sections circled around the massive open space in the center of the mountain. Directly across from them was a section with thrones and draped in red banners – the royal box. Sig walked down the steps and leaned out over the stone railing. Several hundred feet below him a lake of magma boiled. The air around it shimmered and waved and off at the edges of the lake Sig could see huge metal blocks on anti-grav lifts. What they were otherwise, he couldn’t begin to guess. He looked up and could see a circle of clear, blue sky.

So it really was a volcano.

“You don’t expect me to be _fireproof_ , do you?”

“Hardly,” Damas said dryly. “Your first trial will be a test of your physical ability. The matter formers will be formed into an obstacle course. Should you reach the end, your combat abilities will also be tested.”

“And if I don’t reach the end?”

“You won’t have to worry about that.”

Sig swallowed dryly. This trial wasn’t so much of a test to gauge his abilities as a way to weed out the unworthy. Either you passed or you died.

Damas was already walking back up the steps. “Come, you only have a couple hours to prepare.”

They went deeper down the mountain until they emerged back out into the hot, dry desert air. After so long in the oven-like tunnels, it almost felt refreshing. They were at a side entrance, a holding area. Wastelanders wandered about, talking, tending to their weapons or sparring with a partner. But there were cages, pens full of people and strange creatures. Burly figures in bony armor rammed against their cage bars, shouting threats and unintelligible words at any who passed.

“Marauders,” Damas explained. “You will be fighting them.”

Sig eyed them warily. They were bigger than him, and he suddenly doubted his ability to take on even one of them. Most of his fighting experience had been against men who were his size or smaller. His only real experience against a larger enemy had been the KG, and while those bastards didn’t exactly fight fair, they weren’t going in for the kill either.

Damas led Sig to a table beneath a shaded canopy where a middle-aged woman stood over a ledger. “Another desert rescue, Damas?” she asked. “I suppose you’re looking to end your losing streak.”

“The King wants this one to face the Arena today.”

The woman hummed and penned something into her ledger. “I’ll put you down for your usual bet then.” She finally looked up at Sig and spent a moment appraising him. A mean smirk pulled at her lips. “He looks, hmm… _capable_ for a Havenite. You may actually have found a winner. I may even place a wager or two on this one.”

Damas continued to ignore her jabs. “Run him this afternoon, Kada. He is uninjured.”

“Very well. Acolyte!” A girl about Sig’s age hurried over. She was wearing loose orange robes and kept her hair tucked beneath a tight cap. She had painted yellow and orange shapes on her cheeks and over her ears.

“Yes?”

Kada gestured to Sig. “Another for the Arena today. Food, water,” her eyes lingered on Sig’s bloody hands, “And wash that blood off. Check him for injuries. Put him in group six.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Damas stayed with Kada at the table as Sig was led off by the acolyte girl. He doubted it was because they trusted him to behave himself. Sig looked around the holding area. Everyone who was wandering freely was armed; even the acolyte girl had a knife at her waist. Undoubtedly, anyone who wanted to cause trouble would be stopped before they could do any damage. Sig, however, wasn’t feeling particularly flighty nor did he want to start up any trouble. Kada had mentioned food and water, and he wasn’t going to turn that down, even if it might be his last meal.

The girl led him into a large tent where more people in orange robes moved about. Some of them had painted their faces white with orange and yellow markings, others, like the acolyte girl, just had the markings.

“Another for the Arena, Master Taz.”

An older man, stooped and wizened turned to face them in the entrance of the tent. His rheumy eyes flicked over Sig for a moment, before he turned back to the mortar and pestle he was grinding. “See to him.”

The acolyte girl nodded and shoved Sig off to a corner of the tent. “Sit.” she commanded, pointing at a stool. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“I won’t,” Sig said, but she was already off across the tent and outside in a few quick strides.

Sig took the time to simply savor the fact that he was under some shade that wasn’t part of a volcano. He looked around the tent; it was mostly filled with people in the same orange robes, though there were a few Wastelanders scattered about. One man was having a nasty looking cut across his temple tended to by a couple monks. Beneath the blood, Sig could see the telltale signs of Dark Eco contamination.

“Fucking bugs!” the Wastelander hissed as a monk continued dabbing the blood away, sounding more inconvenienced than anything.

Master Taz, having finished his work, shuffled over to them and began dabbing the poultice from his mortar into the wound. By the faint green glow, Sig guessed it had some eco in it.

The acolyte girl returned with her arms full. In one hand, she held a basin of water and some rags, in the other she carried a small bowl, and looped around her arm was a water skin that was filled to bursting.

“Here,” the girl shoved the small bowl and water skin into Sig’s hands. “Eat left handed; I have to clean the blood off.”

“Right. Thanks.” Sig looked down at what had been given to him. It was some kind of grain, cooked until soft and mixed with roasted vegetables. Plain and simple, but Sig didn’t particularly mind, it was free and he’d eaten worse. The first thing he did was uncork the water skin and take several long, blessed drinks. He’d never thought water could taste so good!

Feeling revived just by the water alone, Sig dug into his food with only a little awkwardness as he adjusted to using his non-dominant hand. The acolyte girl had taken the basin and the rags and was scrubbing his right hand free of the blood and gore that had dried on.

“Whose blood is this?” she asked, after finding no injury on him.

“The bastard I flew in with,” Sig growled.

The acolyte made a noise in the back of her throat, but said nothing else.

Sig shoveled down his food, knowing better than to try lingering over this meal. Undoubtedly as soon as he was clean, it would be taken away, regardless of whether he was finished. When the bowl was scraped clean, he drained the water skin. The water in the basin was now quite red, and the rag was stained in places. The girl handed over the wet rag and snatched up the bowl and empty skin.

“Wash your face. You still have blood on it. I’ll be back.”

Sig did as told, and enjoyed the cool sensation of the water drying on his skin. He doubted this was something he would enjoy very often if he actually managed to survive the Trials. Now clean of blood, he followed the acolyte girl when she returned.

“Hey, thank you for that,” Sig said, walking beside her. “I’m Sig. What should I-“

“I don’t care,” the girl cut him off. She glared up at him. “You most likely will not survive the trials. But do try and prove that you were not just a waste of food, water, and my time.”

They stepped back out into the blazing sunlight and back closer to the mountain, past the cages until they stopped at one. Two men in armor that looked to be made of metalhead parts stood guard.

“Kada wants him in pen six,” the acolyte girl stated, not looking over at Sig.

The guards grunted and stepped aside, one pushed open the gate and motioned for Sig to step in. He walked in and turned back to the girl, trying to think of something to say. She beat him to it.

“You have a little over an hour until your Trials. I suggest you prepare in whatever way you see fit.”


	2. Chapter 2 - A Test of Strength

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sig meets some Wastelanders and faces his first trial in the Arena.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at that, chapter two! And it only took me 4 months, because I kept getting hung up on one scene.
> 
> Not much to say about this chapter. Let me tell you, I got really creative with naming characters. (So creative)  
> As always it's self-betaed, so let me know if I missed any obvious/stupid typos.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> -Becks
> 
> **Content Warnings:** Graphic depictions of death and violence, blood and gore, dehumanization of a specific group of people, temporary misgendering of a nonbinary character, strong language and semi-excessive use of the f-word (foul-mouthed teenagers will curse liberally).

Sig had no idea what time it was, nor did he have any way to keep track of when his “little over an hour” would be up. It wasn’t like he could just watch the shadows move. It was daytime, the sun was out, and in an hour the sun would still be out. That was the best he could tell for time without a watch.

He figured that his best chance for survival was to try and gather his strength rather than limber up. He eyed the others in the pen with him. There were about a dozen, a few looked like Wastelanders, others looked like they might be from Haven. He saw one guy covered in KG tatts. How many exiles did the city ship out here anyway?

His eyes fell onto one particularly scrawny guy, who was curled up into as small of a ball as he possibly could in one corner. He stared blankly at the dirt between his feet with hollow eyes and didn’t speak to anyone else.

Sig didn’t think that one would make it through the arena.

The others in the cage eyed Sig appraisingly. There was quite the variety in the group; thin and athletic, brawny and burly, small and scrappy. It was familiar territory, even in the Wasteland. Sig squared his shoulders and drew himself to his full height. He knew he cast an imposing figure, but the last thing he wanted right now was to get in a fight with his cage-mates. Best to just scare them off from picking a fight in the first place.

Sig found a spot that was marginally shaded in the shadows cast by the walls of the cage and parked his butt in the sand. The others let him be… for the most part. One trio wandered over.

They were young; teenagers around Sig’s age. The tallest of the three had flaming red hair, and skin peppered so liberally with freckles he was almost tanned. “Another scavenged tribute, huh? Where’re you from?”

His voice was even and curious, Sig didn’t think he was picking a fight, so he answered. “Haven, where else?”

The smallest of the trio, a wiry kid with olive skin, aqua blue hair, and eyes to match laughed. “Gods, I always forget they don’t teach Havenites nothin’ in that city.”

The last of the trio, medium height, stocky, tanned and blond-haired laughed too. “Shit, the guy probably thought there wasn’t anything outside the walls until the artifact runners picked him up.”

Sig glowered up at the trio, maybe he had guessed wrong. Maybe they did want to start a fight. He’d rather not, but he wasn’t going to just sit there and take their shit either.

“Easy, friend,” the redhead said, dropping down into the dirt. “No sense in wasting our energy before we have to. It’s just you’re hardly the first Havenite we’ve seen who thinks they live in the only safe zone in the world.”

“Get a lot of us out here then?”

He shrugged. “One or two every few months. They don’t usually give us ones like you, though. You a fighter?”

“Yeah.”

“Nice.” The redhead stuck out his hand. “I’m Clay, this is Shale,” he gestured to the blond, “and Flint,” the aqua-haired boy nodded.

“Sig,” he said, shaking their hands in turn. “So all three of you are Wastelanders?”

The three of them laughed.

“Not quite,” Shale explained. His blond hair was cropped short in a buzz cut. “We were all born in Spargus, but you gotta go through the Trials before you can claim to be a Wastelander.”

“What’s the difference?”

“It’s not exactly easy living out in the desert like this. You’ve gotta prove you’re not just dead weight, that you have something to contribute to the city.”

“And everyone has to fight to prove it?”

“No,” Flint shook his head. “Only those who want to work outside the walls. With the Marauders and metalheads out there, you’ve got to be able to protect yourself and the rest of your crew. You’ve gotta earn your battle amulets.”

“What about everyone else?”

“The farms can always use the labor, and the engineers always need rats to crawl through the tunnels and fix pipes, and if you got a decent brain, they’ll put that to good use. There are ways for people who can’t cut it as warriors to prove their worth,” Clay added with half a shrug. “Not as exciting as being a true Wastelander, though.”

“So… you all volunteered for this?”

“Well, yeah. Didn’t you?” Clay studied Sig curiously.

“No,” he said shaking his head, “The King told me I had to.”

The three other boys whistled lowly, their eyes widening in appreciation. Shale added, “Damn, it’s not often the King sends a fresh newcomer in with the prime group. She must have liked you.”

“Or wants me dead.”

“Nah,” Flint shook his head. “The King usually doesn’t toss a newcomer directly to the crocadogs. She’s fair at least, gives everyone a chance. Not to mention Kada placed you in this group, right?”

“Yeah.”

“She’s got a bit of a gambling addiction, loves the high stakes, but doesn’t believe in stacking the deck. If she put you with our group, then she at least thinks you have a decent chance of getting through.”

“What about _that_ guy?” Sig asked quietly, jerking his head towards the huddled man in the corner.

The three boys glowered, their eyes darkening.

Clay spoke first, “A northerner, from Far Drop, I heard. Dunno how he got this far south, but he claimed to be an engineer.”

“Claimed?”

“Yeah, used it to keep him out of the arena. The fraud’s been here for months and the only ‘engineering’ he’s produced cost us an entire scavenger crew.”

“So he’s overstayed his welcome,” Sig surmised.

“Precisely. He has to prove himself just like the rest of us.”

Sig looked at the huddled man again, his initial impression remained the same – unless he was hiding some secret strength in those scrawny arms, he was not going to make it.

He felt a pang of pity for the condemned man. Turning away, Sig decided to take advantage of having some insider information right in front of him. “So you’ve watched these arena challenges before? What can I expect?”

“The first challenge really isn’t all that hard,” Flint said flippantly. “There’s an obstacle course, you have to prove you’re capable of basic physical activities. There’s really only a couple spots where you’re in real danger of falling to your death.”

Sig was hardly comforted by the fact that he might die _only_ a couple times instead of the entire time.

“Then the real challenge comes in the combat portion. One-on-one; you versus a Marauder. Two enter, one leaves,” Flint finished, hardly looking at all troubled that they were expected to murder someone to prove their worth in this city.

“So I have to kill?” Sig didn’t particularly like that. Killing as a test felt too much like one of the nastier gang initiations he’d heard rumors of back in Haven.

Shale nodded gravely. “The rule of the arena is the rule of the land. There can only be one victor in the ring.”

Sig’s hands began to itch where they had only recently been coated in blood. He didn’t like the thought of killing another person for sport, but for survival… his eyes wandered until he found the pen of Marauders. He would do whatever it took to survive.

“At least its only Marauders,” Clay added reasonably, “They’re barely a step up from metalheads. Practically animals themselves.”

“You get a lot of metalheads out here?” Sig asked.

Clay nodded. “Oh yeah, there’s some real nasty ones out in the Wasteland. Kleiver’s crew took down one as big as a house a couple weeks back. Lucky bastards get all the good trophies.”

Despite himself, Sig felt a thrill of excitement run up his spine at the thought of taking down a monstrous metalhead. All his life he had been told stories of the metalheads. How they were the creatures that lurked in dark alleyways, how they were monsters with an insatiable thirst for blood, how the only thing keeping those monsters from tearing through the city was the shield wall. He’d never seen one himself, except for stuffed trophies on bar walls. But he’d heard the tales from off-duty soldiers looking for a free drink or two. Even allowing for dramatic embellishments, going head-to-head against a metalhead was on the bottom of anybody’s list if you didn’t have a death wish.

And to be given the opportunity to face them and kill them… well, Sig did say he wanted to rid the world of monsters. If there was one thing he’d be eager to kill, it was them.

There was a loud commotion from a cage behind him and Sig whipped around to see what was happening. He hadn't gotten a good look at it coming in, but now he could see it was built to contain something inhuman.

The cage was built from heavy bars and lined with tight-linked metal mesh. It had a thick metal floor, rather than being left to the desert sand, and the top was enclosed with more bars and mesh. The guards around it were armed with electrified prods, and on occasion they jabbed into the cage to shock the creatures inside. It was the creatures that had started the commotion, there had to be ten or so in the cage, and they clearly did not care for being kept in close quarters as several had started a shrieking scrum.

"Knock it off!" one of the guards shouted, banging his prod on a metal bar. The loud ringing startled the creatures and they scuttled away, their hostilities forgotten in exchange for hissing at the guards and trying to strike through the mesh. Several of them scuttled up the walls and onto the ceiling, hissing at whatever was closest.

They had to be the "fucking bugs" the injured Wastelander in the tent was cursing. Multi-legged, heavily armored, a wicked looking stinger at their tail ends. But it was the gleaming yellow gems set atop their heads that identified them. He'd never seen a trophy that looked like them, but every person in Haven knew how to identify a metalhead.

Clay chuckled lowly. "It never gets old."

"That's a metalhead, right?" Sig asked.

"Yup. Don't get those in Haven. Do ya?"

"Not inside the walls." Sig stared at the bugs, they weren't very big... maybe a foot long or so. "I thought they were bigger."

"Some are. Precursors, you should see some of the ones that roam the dunes. The Stingers don't look like much, but they pack a nasty punch. They have dark eco-tainted venom in their stings."

"Why do you have them caged up like zoo animals?"

"For practice. Wastelanders hunt metalheads. You earn your armor on your hunts. Stingers usually aren't lethal unless you get caught in a swarm. But you know, for beginners they’re trouble enough."

"Fuck." Sig forced himself to turn away from the cage of metalheads. "And here I thought I was going to spend my life throwing my weight around for a gang lord. Not killing metalheads. If I wanted to do that, I would have joined the Guard."

The Wastelanders snorted with a shared joke. "Buddy, if you think the KG actually would have taught you to kill metalheads, you would have been sorely disappointed," Shale added.

Sig didn’t get a chance to – for reasons unknown to him – try and defend the KG. A loud bell rang out from atop the mountain. The Wastelanders turned to look up, and excited grins spread across their faces.

“That’s our cue,” Flint socked Sig in the shoulder before getting to his feet and dusting off the sand. “You ready, outsider?”

Sig pulled himself to his feet with much less enthusiasm, feeling rather nauseous as his recent meal churned in his stomach. “Don’t really have a choice, do I?”

“That’s the spirit!”

Sig's mouth went dry as the intense heat of the volcanic arena punched him in the gut again. He looked to the others, and even the native wastelanders seemed uncomfortable in the heat. The bookie, Kada, organized their group; outsiders would go first. He was the last of three. The northerner was first, second was a man in his thirties, wiry and athletic, grim and unspeaking, marked with distinctive KG tattoos.

They stood on a platform level with the spectators and Sig was able to see the layout of the arena. The obstacle course was there as promised: climbs over walls and jumps across gaps, narrow walkways to traverse, barbed wire to crawl beneath, and a couple timed traps with moving platforms or jets of fire. It didn't look unreasonably difficult for anyone who was reasonably active, and most of the gaps bottomed out with metal floors. A fall would hurt, maybe break a bone if he landed wrong, but not kill. But there was one jump, a very long gap over an open stretch of lava that simply looking at made Sig's stomach turn.

The seats around the arena were filling up, a dull buzz of chatter echoed off the stone walls. Up in the King's box, Sig could see her and the Queen flanked by a handful of others in seats off to the side, including Damas.

Once it seemed most of the seats were full, the King stepped up to the edge of the box and said a few words. A respectful silence had fallen while she spoke, and once she resumed her seat, the hum of talk picked up again. The engineer was pushed forward onto a platform and the buzz of chatter turned angry, like a nest of whumpbees.

The man was pale, looking weak in the knees, and shaking ever so slightly. Sig watched him carefully as he adjusted to the lurch of the moving platform. He saw a flash of thought cross the man's face as he hovered over an open section of lava. The engineer briefly considered saving himself the effort and just stepping off the platform. But survival instinct was a hard thing to fight, and even the doomed man held the tiny flicker of hope that he might survive the obstacle course at least.

The platform deposited the engineer at the beginning of the course. The crowd jeered as he stepped off. There was no tone to signify when to start, no timer or alarm, or even guards to prod the unwilling into action. If he wanted to, the engineer could stand there indefinitely, in defiance of this tradition, of his death sentence. But he didn’t. He took a few breaths so deep Sig could see his shoulders move from the distance and then stepped off.

The line of challengers fell apart as they all gathered at the edge of their box to watch. Sig was unwillingly jostled into a front row view. Clay was on his left, Flint and Shale were on his right; all three looking eager and bloodthirsty.

The engineer started running the course. Sig watched, learned from his mistakes, plotted the best course around the traps. The engineer actually did rather well, considering. There were a couple times where it looked like a trap was going to get the better of him, or when his grip slipped on a climb and he fell back to the ground. Successes were met with disappointed groans; failures roaring jeers.

The few minutes it took him to run the course seemed so long and also shorter than they should be. He stood at the edge of the final jump, looking down at the lava below. He was visibly shaking now, trembling with exertion and facing his probable final moments alive. The engineer backed up as far as he could. A hush fell over the arena. The man closed his eyes, making peace with whatever deities he held dear. He drew a shaking breath and broke into a run, putting as much power as he could muster into the few steps he was given before launching himself off the edge.

Sig could see once he reached the peak of his arc that he wasn't going to make it. He saw fearful acceptance on the engineer's face. Sig looked away. The crowd roared. The Wastelanders around him joined in, jostling him as they surged forward to watch the final moments.

It didn’t last long.

The atmosphere of the arena changed. Revenge had been wrought. Their fallen comrades had been avenged and the one responsible for their deaths was now gone. The next outsider was shepherded onto the lift for his turn at the course and he was greeted with excitement and anticipation.

Sig watched him carefully, his anxiety rising every moment he passed closer to his turn.

The second man handled the course much easier than the engineer, much faster. Not surprising. Even if he was a KG deserter, he still had their training. He paused at the final jump, his shoulders heaved to catch his breath, his movements were slowed, tired. The crowd cheered him on as he measured the distance, backed to the edge of the platform, and took a running leap. He was going to make it!

He should have made it.

His legs just didn't have the strength in them to get the push for an extra few inches. He barely caught himself on the ledge, hanging by his fingertips. The crowd shouted encouragements; it looked like the man would be able to pull himself up to safety.

But his hands must have been slick with sweat, his grip slipped. He fell to his death.

Sig’s turn.

He felt like he was going to faint as he stepped uneasily onto the platform. He had just watch two different men die on this course. How the hell was he expected to survive? Before the platform moved, someone clapped him on the shoulder and offered encouragingly. "Good luck, Sig, you've got this!"

He laughed shakily; unable to voice the "Bullshit" he wanted to. The platform lurched into motion.

The heat was unbearably intense on the obstacle course floor. The matter formers hovered above the boiling lake of lava, but only a few yards separated him from death. The roar of the crowd turned into a dull buzzing in his ears, he looked up and around. They were watching him curiously, intently, he could see people shouting and calling, but his brain was blocking them out.

Now or never.

Either he survived the trial, or he wouldn’t have to worry about it anyway. And burning up in a lake of lava was probably faster than dying of dehydration like he thought he was going to just a few hours earlier.

Sig drew a deep breath and took off. He kept track of the mental notes he’d made watching the other two. He paced himself, trying to conserve as much strength as possible. He would need it for that final jump.

_It really isn’t so bad_ , he thought as he hauled himself up over the first climb. It maybe wasn’t something he’d ever trained for, but this kind of initiation was a hell of a lot better than beating down some poor shopkeeper for protection money.

Sig sidestepped carefully around the hidden spikes in the floor, and jumped to the next platform before his current one gave way beneath his feet. He allowed himself a moment to breathe as he got to his feet, looking around. He saw excitement and anticipation and appraisal in the eyes of the Wastelanders.

These people were fucking crazy, but then again, who wasn’t these days?

He nearly singed his eyebrows off when he mistimed a fire trap, but otherwise made it to the final jump unscathed. Sig stopped again, eyeing the distance.

_Oh Precursors_ , it looked a hell of a lot farther down here than it did up there. Oh, he definitely was not going to make this. Fuck.

Like his predecessors, Sig backed up to the far edge of the platform. He took a moment to check himself. His legs were tired, but not entirely fatigued. His arms were sore from the climbs, but if he was able to catch himself by his elbows he was confident he’d be able to pull himself up. That was the best he could hope for. Just to jump far enough to catch himself.

He took what may be his final look around the arena. Up in the King’s box, they watched him with carefully guarded expressions, giving nothing away of their hopes for his success or failure. Sig’s eyes scanned the crowd and he saw the acolyte girl, her arms crossed tightly and her expression all too readable. She glowered at him, frowning, doubtful, ready to be shown that he was, in fact, a waste of her time.

Well, nothing to be done about it now.

Sig took off running, pumping his legs as hard as he could, launching himself with all his might at the very edge of the platform. He closed his eyes as he jumped, unwilling to watch his final moments and see the boiling lava come closer and closer.

At least he’d see Mama again soon.

Sig’s ankle twisted painfully under him as he hit the very hard and very much not-boiling-lava of the platform on the other side. His breath was knocked from his lungs as he rolled and tumbled to a stop.

He’d made it!

Sig could hear the crowd roaring their approval as he pushed himself to his feet. He was almost on the far side of the platform, and Sig knew he hadn’t rolled more than a yard or so. Damn, he _really_ made it; and overshot the edge by several feet he would guess.

_Oh thank the Precursors!_ He bowed over to catch his breath, but lifted a triumphant fist into the air.

His victory was short lived, though, when the King reminded him that he still had to face the combat portion of the trial.

Sig stepped onto a waiting lift platform and was carried up over the matter formers as the obstacle course shifted out of the way and a small, flat arena dominated the center of the lake. Now? He’d thought they would at least run everyone else through the obstacle course before putting the survivors through the arena. He thought he would have a chance to recover before having to fight for his life.

With the arena in place, Sig was lowered back down, and he stepped into the ring. It wasn’t very big, maybe thirty feet across, and it hovered just a yard or so above the lava. If he died down here, at least he’d be used to the temperatures in hell.

A rack appeared from a hidden slot in the floor, the message was obvious. Sig was supposed to choose a weapon. There were spears and clubs and heavy axes, blades ranging in size from tiny throwing knives to a machete nearly as long as Sig’s thigh. No guns, of course. That would have been too easy.

Sig’s experience with weapons was handguns and the jackknife he used to keep in his pocket mostly used as an all-purpose tool, but the KG had taken that when they’d arrested him. And he didn’t think a small blade was going to be all that useful if he was expected to kill one of those Marauders with it. He would probably need something big enough to use in defense as well.

He chose the machete.

The weapon rack disappeared and a caged platform hovered over. Sig could see a Marauder inside, already wielding a nasty looking spiked club. His machete felt very suddenly inadequate.

Sig’s hands itched again where the other man’s blood had been. This fight was going to be a lot different than his earlier one. There was no chance of Sig sneaking up on the Marauder and caving his skull in. In a fair fight against a bigger, stronger opponent, well… he was probably fucked.

Sig wiped his sweaty palms on his pants, adjusted his grip on the machete, and gave it a few test swings to get used to the weight. The Marauder looked bulky and slow. Maybe Sig could be fast and get a few good cuts into a couple vital areas. He just had to be sure to avoid that club. Those spikes looked like they would cut deep. Not to mention it was heavy enough that one good swing could split his skull open.

The cage butted up against the arena. Sig pushed away any remaining thoughts of “what if” as the door lifted. He knew what he needed to do. Either he did it or it wasn’t something he would have to worry about.

The Marauder leapt from his cage with a roar, charging Sig, and swinging his club wildly. Sig waited until the last second to dodge, hoping to catch him off guard and sneak in a strike, but he moved to the wrong side and had to use his machete to block the club’s backswing.

Sig quickly backpedaled to get out of the range of the club. The Marauder paused for a moment. They sized each other up. Sig sidestepped slowly, the Marauder mirrored him. He knew better than to be the first to strike, so he watched carefully for the first signs of attack.

The Marauder howled again, trying the charge-and-bash approach again. Sig kept better track of the club and stepped to the right side. He was able to deal a blow to the Marauder’s side, and saw blood, but the cut was shallow and hardly debilitating. The crazy bastard didn’t even flinch.

The Marauder retaliated faster than Sig thought he would. He spun away from the blade and brought up his club overhead to swing down on Sig’s skull.

Sig barely stopped the blow by bracing his machete with his hands. He was sloppy, and unprepared, but he stopped the club from cracking his head like an egg. They grappled for a moment, the machete wedged between a couple of the spikes, but with a wrench, the Marauder pulled his club down and away.

Sig tried to step out from under the falling arc of the club, but he wasn’t fast enough. The spikes dug into his right shoulder and clawed their way down his arm. It burned like fire and he could feel blood pouring from the wounds. The machete clattered to the floor. His right hand went weak and limp; he could hardly twitch a finger, much less grip the weapon.

Sig pointedly did not look at the damage to his arm as he jumped back and away from another swing. It missed his head but shook the arena floor with a loud crash. _Hell_ , that thing had to weigh a ton and the Marauder swung it around like it was a toy bat.

That weight was to his advantage, though, as the Marauder had stuck the club into the arena floor and was trying to pry it lose. Sig took advantage of his distraction and charged, tackling the Marauder.

It was like hitting a solid wall, but at least he was able to push him several steps away from both weapons. The surprise didn’t last. The Marauder regained his footing, dug his hands in at Sig’s shoulders, and bodily threw him away.

Sig was so blinded with pain that he didn’t feel himself hit the arena floor. It took him several seconds to get back to his feet, but that was all the time the Marauder needed to pry his club free. He grinned maliciously, swinging the club tauntingly, as he waited, almost sportingly, for Sig to get back on his feet.

_This fucker’s actually enjoying this_ , Sig realized with a sickening lurch. This _was_ just sport to the Marauder. If he really had wanted to end things quickly and easily, he would have collected Sig’s dropped machete, which wasn’t lying too far from his feet.

Sig had to get rid of the Marauder’s weapon. That was the only way he could possibly win.

He circled slowly, taking advantage of the chance to catch his breath. The Marauder mirrored him again obligingly, stepping away from the machete. _Fuck_ , Sig knew when he was being toyed with, but he had to try.

He stopped when they were both an equal distance from the machete. Sig took off at a sprint, hoping he was at least faster than the bulky Marauder. He grabbed the Machete with his left hand and turned just in time to deflect a blow from the club.

The Marauder was off balance for a second. Sig was positioned perfectly to strike. He swung the machete at the Marauder’s arm. The blade sunk into the flesh and hit bone, and as he hoped, the Marauder dropped the club. Sig wrenched the machete free, tossing it blindly away, before making a grab for the club.

The thing was about as heavy as he expected, but he was able to haul it up and away, and with a little more effort throw it in the same direction his machete had gone. This time he watched it fly. It hit the deck of the arena and skidded the last couple of feet to the edge where it dropped over into the lava.

Sig’s heart sank when he realized he could not find his machete anywhere. He beat a hasty retreat as far away from the Marauder as possible.

There was nothing left to do. The machete was now probably melted into slag, and the Marauder’s club had shared that fate. Sig backed up, throwing glances over his shoulder to see how close he was to the edge of the arena. The Marauder approached slowly; a triumphant, feral look on his face as he closed in for the kill. The blow to his arm may have made it useless – at least they were even in that regard – but it hardly seemed to bother him.

Sig really didn’t want to die like this. Not after everything he had been through today. But he had nothing left to fight with. Nothing except his left fist and his body. The Marauder might have sixty pounds of muscle on Sig, but Sig was taller, and he wasn’t exactly a scrawny kid either.

_Shit_ , it might get him killed, but brute strength was the last thing he had going for him. It had already served him well once today. It was worth a shot.

Sig stopped backing up and braced himself. He was only a few feet from the edge. If this didn’t work, or if the Marauder was able to push him back, he would meet a very crispy end.

With a howl, the Marauder charged at Sig. He was ready and managed to stop the charge before he got shoved back more than a few inches. They grappled for a moment, but even with one nearly useless arm, Sig was able to jab his elbow into the Marauder’s face. Something cracked as he made contact, and the Marauder was stunned for a second. Just long enough for Sig to get the upper hand, grab him, and haul him the last couple feet, bodily throwing the Marauder into the lava.

He stumbled back, deaf to the screams of the dying man. Deaf to most things actually. He couldn’t hear the crowd, though looking up he could see them on their feet cheering for him. And he felt oddly cold. Given the lava, and the physical exertion, and the adrenaline, there was no way he should feel the slightest bit chilled. But he was and his limbs felt numb and tingly.

He only realized he was blacking out as his butt hit the floor.

_Hell of a way to go…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really don't think fight scenes are my forte, which means I picked the wrong type of fic to write if that's the case. Let me know how I did. I spent so long trying to get it right.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> PS - Mentally, I keep referring to the Spargus trio as the Rock Band. Because names are hard sometimes.


End file.
